“Not exactly. That is—he owed me something—we had other deals, you understand.”
“No, I understand nothing but that you are trying to deceive me.” His eyes, like points of steel, were boring into Sleeman’s. He leaned far over the table. “Sleeman,” he entreated, “don’t make me hurt you. I would love to, but unless it is necessary I must not. Listen! If it should become necessary I will, and gladly. I should like to hear you groan—as—as—oh, Sleeman!—as I heard my father groan the day you killed him.”
“I didn’t kill——”
Paul’s open hand flashed to Sleeman’s face. “Liar!” he snarled, half rising from his chair.
“Stop! stop!” cried Sleeman, utterly cowed and unmanned. “I’ll tell you straight. I have the papers here. Don’t—do—anything!”
“Oh, you poor cur!” cried Paul. “If you were only a man I should know what to do with you.” He was bitterly, horribly balked. He could not bring himself to punish this abject creature. The truth was Sleeman was by no means the man he was six years ago. He had been heavily dissipating, and his face showed his physical and moral degeneration. “Get through with this,” said Paul angrily. “Put your papers on the table.”
Sleeman hastened to obey.
“Make a list of them.”
“Why? What do you——”
“Make a list of them!” snapped Paul.